10-From the Far Shore
by Chronic Guardian
Summary: Things looked different from the far shore. At the end of it all though, he was happy he made the journey. For Fahiru. [Twelve Shots of Summer: Trinity Limit]


**10-From the Far Shore**

By Chronic Guardian

 **Author's Note:** **Written for Twelve Shots of Summer: Trinity Limit [week 10:Graduation/Scars] For Fahiru, who understands the greatness of Jecht.**

There was a time when the scars covering Jecht's body were basically the same thing as the tattoo on his chest. He'd gotten them all from blitzball and basically all of them were intentional. Fans loved it. He was the blitzer who wouldn't quit, the guy who put the game first and made brutal goal shots even when blood was streaming from his leg and the refs were screaming at him to get out of the blitzsphere. They were a mark of his pedigree in a world without war; even in the peaceful utopia of Zanarkand, he still fought hard. He could barely remember how he'd gotten most of them, but he carried each one as a sign of his manhood.

Some days, he would look at his son's perfect, unblemished skin and imagine what the boy would look like when he grew up. It was obvious he'd be an ace blitzer, but the kid was soft. That was something that set them apart: Jecht wouldn't let the scars slow him down. His kid though… well, maybe he'd get over it in time. Today, he cried over scrapped knees and lost games. None of it lasted on him though; a few weeks later and his skin was back to its youthful completeness. And yet, someday they'd have to play head to head, the greatest blitzers in the world. Then they'd earn their marks together.

Those dreams were derailed a little when Jecht came to Spira.

Spira was different. Not different like signing on with a different team after playing with another for ten years, different like going to play the Zanarkand champion cup and realizing the sphere's gone and the stands are empty. Spira didn't have the luxury of Zanarkand, you didn't get a medal for being the most brutal player in the blitzsphere. When people saw his scars, they said they were sorry for him. Jecht didn't understand until he saw someone else like him, a man covered with scars and missing a leg. Scars weren't trophies here. This wasn't a game where adding scars was just raising the stakes; this was a world where everyone had scars, but nobody wanted them.

In that world, Jecht felt like a lost little kid. It was like opening his eyes for the first time after imagining what things looked like in the dark. He saw what scars really meant, and he understood that his collection was a sad joke compared to other men who carried them.

He tried to wash it away with a round of drinks. It was kind of funny how that one played out in his head. Children weren't supposed to drink, so getting plastered was kind of a way to affirm his own maturity.

When he woke up with a splitting headache, he realized he'd only added another reason for questioning his adulthood.

That was around when Braska found him. Braska was the kind of guy Jecht would have made fun of in Zanarkand: quiet, thoughtful, religious. Jecht always thought those guys were hairsplitting kill-joys with an outdated mission. In Spira, it made more sense. Jecht didn't like admitting that, but if he was being an honest grown up about it he didn't have much choice. Still, half the reason he agreed to join the guy was a promise to get back to Zanarkand. In his own words "Anything to get outta here." Spira was a bad dream, the sooner Jecht could find a way to wake up from it the better.

The catch of it all was that in order to go home, Jecht had to stick around Braska and his stiff-as-a-board bodyguard the whole way. That didn't help with the whole escaping gloomsville plan, but Jecht was a fighter; he tried to make the best of it. He missed his fans, he missed his family, he missed being the biggest guy in the room who could turn things around with just a smile and a brash statement. He wanted all of that back. For once in his life, Jecht wished he could turn back time and just ignore what was going on.

Working as Braska's guardian still crept in a small change along the way though. It was kind of like learning to walk again. Braska needed Jecht's brute strength, but this time it was for real battles. There were no refs on the side lines, no substitutes waiting to let him take a breather, and no crowds to be wowed by an over-the-top performance. This time it was life-or-death, and Jecht wasn't shooting for the goal to get another trophy. This was the big leagues. As a guardian to a summoner, Jecht was fighting for the fate of the world.

Jecht grew to appreciate his position. He remembered the first scar he got in Spira. He was using his body to intercept a monster lunging at Braska. It hurt like hell, especially because Spira didn't have Zanarkand's medical advancements, but Jecht carried that one proudly. It was something he'd never take back, a statement that he'd put it all on the line when he didn't have to. He'd gotten that scar on purpose, but not just because he wanted another one to brag about.

There were others he got along the way. He gathered them like mementos to show his son when he got back to Zanarkand. They were a story of choices that actually mattered. To that end, Jecht was really hoping he'd see his son again soon. He didn't want the boy to be a blitzer anymore, he wanted something more than that. Well… he didn't say that part out loud. His kid wanted to be a blitzer more than anything. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe Jecht was fighting so dreamers like that didn't have to sweat the big stuff. He didn't know. He just wanted to see his son again and be a man the boy could be proud of.

Then he found out the big secret about summoners: they all die.

To say it was a shock would be an understatement. Braska was a good guy, Jecht got that, but the guy was going to kill himself to save a world that didn't even like him. Heck, there were other summoners going on the same journey who weren't half the man Braska was. Let them make the sacrifice!

The problem with that was that a coward wouldn't cut it for something this big. The world needed heroes, guys who weren't content with walking away with a big scar on their back. They weren't playing for scars this time, they were playing for keeps: whoever went up there to finish the summoner's pilgrimage and stop Sin was a dead man. There wouldn't be any bragging at the end of the day.

But there could still be victory.

Jecht took a moment to think of his son. He would have liked to see the boy grow into a man, but it only made sense that he would have to make that step for himself first.

"Hey, Auron," Jecht turned to Braska's other guardian. "Look out for my kid, will ya?"

"...Any words I should pass along?"

Jecht thought about it. He was no good with words. Besides, he didn't know how to explain himself after this long. He'd passed over the border from his childhood world and he didn't know how to go back. All that was left was to move forward. "...Naw, he'll figure it all out eventually."

"You're sure?"

"Sure I'm sure. He's my son, after all."

Yes, that was right, the boy was his son. If Jecht could make the grade for true manhood, he was sure his boy could do it too. Still, somehow he hoped the kid would make it with fewer scars along the way.

"Are you ready then? There's no taking this one back, you know."

Jecht smiled. "I know."

But he was okay with that. Scars weren't meant to heal, they were meant to be remembered. He wouldn't be coming back from this one, but someone would remember for him.

Taking one last look behind and gazing at the expanse of the life he'd lived before, Jecht stood up and moved to join Braska. Things looked different from the far shore. Everything was worse, but somehow he felt happier. He understood the truth, that a man wasn't made by what he gave but what he gave for. His scars weren't meant for himself; they told the story of what he'd done for others, for the world. When he looked at it that way, it was hard to see how he'd thought he was anywhere close to grown up in Zanarkand. That was okay though. In the end, he was happier to find something worth the scars than realize he was perfect all along. The pain was worth it.

Even if being a man meant knowing he would die, Jecht was happy. Now he had something worth dying for.

 **[** _fin_ **]**

 **Note: Ending edited at the suggestion of the wonderful Aviantei, 8-6-16.**


End file.
